


When The Day Met The Night

by zoink98



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coffee Shops, Detectives, First Meetings, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Murder, flatmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-05-02 03:07:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5231561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoink98/pseuds/zoink98
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is home from Afghanistan and in desperate need of coffee. He meets Sherlock Holmes, a man who seems to know everything about him. They are both in need of a friend in this life and cling to each other for sanity, moral support, and maybe more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this sort of just came to me. I am not sure where I am going with it but I like what I have so far. I probably won't be able to update very often because of other things I am writing as well as work and school. This is sort of an AU, not exactly because they are in the same place at the same time, but they meet differently, and their relationship is different. Enjoy!
> 
> ~Title is taken from one of my favorite Panic! at the disco songs~

John Watson can’t remember the last time he had a good cup of coffee. It has been months. Ever since he got back from the army he has been craving a good cup of coffee. Tea is great but sometimes coffee is the only thing that will settle your craving. The plane had absolutely shit coffee and he hasn’t been back long enough to get an apartment, let alone coffee and a kettle. 

So when John finds a small bookstore/coffee shop, it takes everything in him not to tear through the doors and sprint into line. Well, everything and a gimp leg. Instead, he picks up his cane and hobbles over, ringing the bell on the door as he enters. 

~

 

Sherlock Holmes is walking through the isles of the bookstore for possibly the hundredth time. Although it is his favorite bookstore, it has the same books as all of the others and there is nothing interesting and new to look at. He needs to find a new one and he hears there is a large one opening somewhere, on one of the many streets in London, sometime soon. In the next week? Month? He doesn’t know, nor does he really care. He probably won’t make it there ever anyway so what is the point of having useless information floating around his mind?

The door jingles as a customer comes in but Sherlock doesn’t look up. He couldn’t care less about the millings of average people in their average lives, coming into an average bookstore for an average cup of coffee. He keeps his head down, buried in the old cedar shelves, so no one will approach him. 

~

 

John smells the coffee as soon as he opens the door. It hits him in a wave that sends his mind reeling. He breathes it in, closing his eyes to make his nose work twice as hard. He must have been standing there longer than he thought because there is a grunt behind him as an elderly gentleman crosses his arms, clearly impatient, and waits until John mutters an apology and steps aside before he uncrosses them. John picks his cane back up and walks over, taking his place in line behind the grunting gentleman. The lady behind the counter is very young, with a small, elfish, nose and auburn hair. She flits around from machine to refrigerator to customer, her feet carrying her quickly from station to station. The pony tail, once taunt against her skull, loosely bobs behind her, strands of wispy hair coming undone near her ears. It is still afternoon but the woman looks frazzled and barely gives him a smile as John limps up to the counter and orders a plain vanilla latte. She takes his order and flits back to the espresso machine, catching the creamy dark matter that leaks from it in a measured shot glass. John sits down at a small table near the book section of the coffee house and picks up the paper as he waits for his coffee to be delivered. 

~

 

Sherlock is vaguely aware of the people around him. He is so detached from society that the everyday human norms of life fly over his head, he doesn’t register them. He does see them, though. He sees the elderly man standing in the doorway, looking annoyed, his arms crossed in front of him. He sees the barista flitting from customer to customer, looking deflated. He sees the young man with a cane limp across the room after ordering his coffee. He sees all of these people but he doesn’t acknowledge them or their lives. That is until he is about to leave the coffee shop sometime later, but is rudely run into by the very man whom he was ghosting over with his eyes earlier. 

~

 

“Oh, I am so sorry, sir! It’s this damned cane. I apologize, truly I do.” John Watson stumbles over his words. He sticks out his hand, feeling the need to introduce himself to this stranger whom he just about ran down, even if this man was substantially taller than himself. He keeps his hand outstretched for a few moments, but recoils it when the man doesn’t take it, just stares him. John clears his throat with a grunt and nods to the man.

“John Watson.” He says gruffly. 

The man continues to stare at him. He has extremely sharp features, his cheekbones protruding so much it gives his a ghastly look. His eyes are small almonds of ocean blues and greens and his lips pull together so tight, they look almost white. A dark mound of curly hair rests upon his head, messed just enough to give him a playful look. He stands above John, giving him an almost ethereal look. He is quite handsome, some may call it beauty. 

His eyes finally stop roaming John’s body and return to his face. He finally sticks out his hand, now waiting for John to address him, and John takes it, feeling both curious and frustrated with this pompous man. 

“Name’s Sherlock Holmes. When did you get back?” His voice is low, almost gravely, as he asks his question.

“Excuse me?” John pulls his hand back, his eyes squinted in suspicion. 

“From Afghanistan. When did you get home? It was recent, was it not?” Sherlock asks.

“H-how did you know I was in Afghanistan?” John questions, starting to feel a bit creeped out. 

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders. “I’m very good at reading people. I also know that you live alone, have for quite some time, you are not close with your family, you are right handed, you do not have pets, you are a neat freak, and your limp is completely psychosomatic.” 

John stares at this man, this man with crystalline eyes and the face that could cut glass. How could he possibly know all of this information? Has he met him before? No. He would definitely remember a face, and personality, like Sherlock’s. 

"How the bloody hell did you know all that?" John demands. "And you are wrong you know. I took a bullet to my leg. Completely physical!”

“I’ve already told you; I read people well.” Sherlock frowns.

“That is a hell of a lot more than just ‘reading’ people. You know about my whole life!” John exclaims. His voice is quite high now and he has begun to attract the attention of quite a few people in the little bookstore. Sherlock, not liking to have a bunch of attention on him, grabs John by his elbow and pulls him outside, giving a small wave-like gesture to the barista.

~

 

‘Who does this man think he is?’ John wonders, his eyes blown wide and agitated by this strangers weird inside knowledge of his life. He had to have met him before, there is no other possible explanation for this. But at the same time he knows he hasn’t. Sherlock is extremely memorable, and not just his brain. His sharp features and perfectly symmetrical face and the way his ebony hair curls around his ears and falls over his forehead… there is no way John could have forgotten him. Sherlock gives him a look and then there is a long, firm hand on his elbow, pulling him outside the coffee house and onto the street. 

Once outside, John yanks his arm away and protectively pulls his cane towards him. 

“You were drawing too much attention.” Sherlock hisses.

“I don’t bloody care! Now you tell me how you know that!” John yells, his face turning red.

Sherlock looks at John for a few seconds, calculating, before he answers him. 

“You hold your coffee in your right hand, you hold yourself, even with your limp, like a soldier. You keep your head high and you are courteous, you give head nods instead of thanks. Yet you are not very good with people which tipped me off that you live alone. Your clothing is pressed and starch, not a single hair or piece of fuzz on them. As for your limp, now that is just a guesstimate.” 

John keeps his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s face, his gaze steady but questioning. A hundred outbursts threaten to explode from his mouth. 

Sherlock stares back at John, a small smile trying to climb its way onto his lips. 

“Any questions?” The man with a mind not to be trifled with asks in a condescending tone. 

“Who are you?” John is no longer frustrated or angry, he is bewildered. How can such a person exist?

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker street. Drop in sometime for a cuppa.”


	2. Chapter 2

“That is moronic, Anderson. How can one be so mentally idiotic and look so stupid at the same time? Isn’t there a law that prevents those two ever coexisting in the same body?” Sherlock asks the thin, scruffy-haired man at his side.

“All I said was she wasn’t a smoker!” replies Anderson, indignantly. 

Sherlock isn’t fazed and continues to study the corpse lying at his feet. She is a blonde woman in her late forties, wearing a black pantsuit, glasses that have been shattered from her apparent fall, and carrying a briefcase that has already been opened and searched through. Cause of death seems to asphyxiation. From what, Sherlock is still trying to figure out. 

“She most certainly is a smoker. Even if I hadn’t seen the wrappings of a pack of cigarettes in her bag, I can see the yellow tint on her finger nails and it is highly unlikely to be that naturally thin at her age. She smokes, Anderson.”

“Yeah. Got it, thanks.” Anderson sneers, crossing his arms tightly over his chest.

“Anderson! Go check on Donavan, see if she needs help finding out who this woman is. Leave Sherlock alone. You know he doesn’t like you.” Yells a man with salt and pepper hair. He is handing the woman next to him a few papers and giving her instructions. She gives an annoyed glance at Anderson and turns sharply on her heels and walks briskly out of the room. Anderson chases after her, not giving Sherlock another look.

“Good job, Gavin. Putting your foot down.” Sherlock congratulates the other man, still not looking up from the body.

“Oh, don’t talk to me like that, Sherlock. You’re not even supposed to be here so just keep your mouth shut and don’t gloat. And my name is Greg! Gregory Lestrade!” Lestrade banters back. 

“She was strangled with her scarf!” Sherlock shouts, startling Lestrade.

“What scarf?” Greg Lestrade asks in consternation. 

“The one she was wearing when she came into this room. It is so obvious, is it not?”

Lestrade rolls his eyes.

~

John Watson’s flat is cold. His heater is broken and the only source of warmth is the tiny little stove in the corner of his “kitchen”. 

He isn’t one for aesthetics so his flat is very plain; white walls, the paint peeling around the window sills, a small refrigerator and stove in his kitchen, and an old sofa, sunken in and pilly. The only thing in his whole flat that is appealing to the eye is his collection of mugs. While he was stationed in Afghanistan, he had an old friend of his hold onto his mug collection. He is very proud of this collection and uses them often. They are quite practical too. For how often he has tea and coffee, they are all used regularly.

John has a warm, cream coloured jumper on and is curled up on his sofa with one of his mugs.

This particular mug isn’t anything special, his sister got it for him many years ago when he was still in medical school. It simply says “Doctors do it better” in a fancy font. He chuckles to himself as he rereads the mug. 

His light-hearted mood is quickly extinguished when the next draft of cool wind floats into his room and freezes his bare feet. 

“I need to find a new place.” He mutters to himself. 

~

It’s been over a week since John had his first encounter with Sherlock. He had thought a lot about that strange man in those few days. It is only when he is bored out of his mind that he decides to pay him a visit. 

He finds himself standing in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at a black door with a gold knocker. He doesn’t knock, he just stares at the door, looming in his vision like a light filtering out everything around him, leaving him staring hopelessly at the door. John pulls down the sleeves of his jumper and checks his watch. He knocks.

He doesn’t wait too long outside before an older lady, thin with short wavy hair, opens the door. 

“Hello, dear. May I help you?” She asks.

“Oh no, excuse me. I must have the wrong address. Excuse me, I will get out of your hair.” John apologizes, his face heating up. ‘This is 221B, but where is Sherlock? Did he purposefully give me the wrong address?’ John suddenly feels his stomach drop. He hadn’t been aware at how much he wanted to see that crazy, all knowing man. 

“Are you looking for Sherlock, dear?” The woman in front of him asks.

John’s stomach leaps. “Um, yes, actually I am.”

“Oh, oh, come in! I’ll go get him for you. Please come in and wait inside?” She opens the door wider, as an invitation and gestures for John to follow.

The hallway he finds himself in is dark, only lit by a few dim lights. In front of him is a staircase that leads to another level. There is a hallway to his right which looks like it might be another apartment. The old lady starts up the stairs, her shoes making a loud thump as she steps. He is sure that anyone upstairs would be able to hear her coming. John leans up against a wall and waits.

~

Sherlock paces his living room, waiting for any sort of thought to strike him. He wants to go out and do something. But he also wants to do a new experiment. The only issue there is his microwave is broken from the last one he did. A cup of sodium hydroxide spilled on the spinning tray in the microwave and ate through the entire bottom of it. He can’t do anymore fun experiments until he gets a new microwave. 

He continues pacing until he hears footsteps on the stairs. They are heavy steps, each one clomping as much as the one before it. 

“Mrs. Hudson. What is it you want?” He asks the approaching figure in his doorway.

“Sherlock, dear, you are going to wear down the carpet. Won’t you please stop your pacing?” Asks the old woman standing near the door.

“I’m thinking.” Sherlock mutters, pressing his fingers into a steeple underneath his nose.

“Okay, well I guess if you’re thinking. But Sherlock, we have a visitor.” 

Sherlock perks up, a look of pure hunger on his face, “Well then, Mrs. Hudson, do send them up.”

Mrs. Hudson nods and retreats back downstairs, her short heels making the same deep click on the way down. 

~

The clomping begins again and John sees the woman descend the stairs and approach him.

“He’s upstairs, dear. You’ll see him as soon as you get up there.” She says with a smile.

“Thank you, uh-”

“Mrs. Hudson” She answers, letting him show his gratitude with a nod of his head.

John picks up his cane that had been leaning against the wall with him, and starts up the stairs, taking them slowly as to not agitate his leg. There is a distinct scraping sound coming from above him and John is curious to find out what it is. Sherlock is such an interesting character and from his brief meeting with him a week before, John is anxious to see how this man lives. He can’t possibly have a normal flat, he isn’t a normal person. John comes up with different pictures and ideas in his mind as he ascends the stairs in the dark. Mrs. Hudson doesn’t seem to be too fond of adequate lighting. 

The stairs lighten up at the top and John steps through the open doorway. Sherlock isn’t there to greet him; in fact he isn’t anywhere in plain sight and the scraping sound from earlier has stopped. John stands in the doorway, right under the frame, not sure whether he is allowed in or not. The walls around him are covered in a black and white fancy wallpaper, the designs on it dipping down into points and flowing back up, ready to dip down again with elegance in it’s swirl. That elegance of the apartment that the wallpaper suggests is quickly extinguished with one glance around the room. The place is cluttered to say the least. Newspapers and magazines and article clippings litter the floor and create piles stacked around the room. There is sheet music fluttering around and books stacked atop coffee tables and chairs and any other surface available. The light that had been shining into the dark hallway was only an illusion, John realizes. The red curtains are drawn and the only source of distinguishable light is coming from a few dim lamps, casting eerie shadows across the floor. The entire place gives off a mysterious and lonely vibe. Across the room sits two chairs. One is covered in a shawl and the other sits low to the floor, green in color and sunken in from years of use. John wanders over to the covered chair and contemplates sitting down. His leg is killing him and Sherlock should know he is there. 

Hell with it. 

He sits down and is surprised to find the chair exceedingly comfortable; it appears to mold itself perfectly to him. John sits back and crosses one leg atop the other as he waits for Sherlock.

Sherlock has been in the room the entire time. He was standing in the corner of the kitchen, observing, seeing how John takes to the place. Once John sat down and made himself comfortable, Sherlock decided to go approach him.

~

“I see you found the place alright.” Sherlock states, walking out of the shadows of the kitchen and steering himself towards the other unoccupied chair. 

John jumps, swinging his head towards the voice and coming face to face with the man whom he came to see. 

Sherlock is wearing a tight purple dress shirt with black dress pants and shoes and his hair is just as wild and curly as ever. His eyes stare at John, calculating and intrigued as he takes in his companion. John shies away from the intense stare and instead stands up to try and shake hands. Once again, Sherlock disregards the gesture until John has already lowered his hand. 

John shifts from foot to foot, unsure what he do with himself. “It’s a nice place you have here.” He prompts, trying to break the uncomfortable silence that has suddenly filled the room. 

“Yes. I’m renting from Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock states, not offering up any more information.

“Mrs. Hudson. She is a nice woman. How did you two meet?” John asks, still desperate for conversation. 

Sherlock doesn’t answer right away. Instead he walks past John and takes a seat in the green chair across from him. John takes this as a queue and sits down as well.

“I helped her with some trouble she had a while back.” Sherlock answers, coolly. 

John nods and looks around the room. This is not going how he had hoped at all. Sherlock is not being forthcoming with any information and John is more stumped by this man as ever. In a last effort, John begins to ask one more question. 

“So, what is it-” He begins.

“Why did you choose to stop by today, over a week since I first invited you? I have some theories but I would like to hear it from you before I jump to conclusions.” Sherlock interrupts suddenly, stopping John’s train of thought.

“Oh, well, I uh was just walking down your street today on my day off and decided to pop in.” John says, hoping his lie sounds convincing. 

“I don’t believe that.” Sherlock replies. He then stands up and begins to pace around the room, circling John’s chair on every other lap. “See, I believe you tried to forget about me, the man who seemed to ‘know everything about you’ but your curiosity got the better of you and you just had to come see me. Why today, I am not sure. But I do know that you couldn’t stay in your flat for any longer and you left in a hurry. Your clothes are wrinkled and one of your shoes is scuffed like you hurried here and bumped yourself on the way over. Do tell me if I am wrong.”

John stares at him for a while before speaking again. “You are good.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply but instead continues to stare. John fidgets under his eyes.

“How do you do it?” John questions.

“I observe.” Sherlock simply replies.

“So you’ve said but there has to be more to it than that.” John continues to press. As a doctor he is always curious for knowledge and Sherlock Holmes seems to be one of the most knowledgeable things out there.

“No. I calculate people and situations. I’m just very smart.” 

John scoffs. “Modest too.”

Sherlock squints his eyes and brings his hands up to his face to create another steeple under his nose. “You are flat shopping.”

John’s eyes widen a bit but he retains his composure. “Not yet, but I plan to shortly.”

Sherlock suddenly bolts out of his seat and walks past John and down a short hallways that leads to a room. John doesn’t pursue him but waits to see what that outburst was about. He hears a crash and then some scuffling coming from the direction Sherlock took off in but he still doesn’t follow. 

Sherlock reappears looking the same as when he left but with a stack of papers in his hands.

“Move in here.” He commands, shoving the papers into John’s lap.

“Excuse me?” John asks, picking up the papers and flipping through them.

“It is cheap, fairly clean, and Mrs. Hudson makes wonderful coffee.” Sherlock reasons.

“I’ve just met you!” John exclaims, standing up and handing the papers back to Sherlock.

“You find me intriguing and I find you just as curious. It would be a practical solution as well as a learning experience.” Sherlock explains, handing the papers back to John.

John stares at the documents in his hand. He is in desperate need of a new place and Sherlock’s is in a prime location. But what does he really know about this man? Sherlock is obviously brilliant but he also seems a little maniacal and dangerous. His place would need a cleaning but it is already completely furnished. 

Sherlock stares at John, waiting for an answer. John continues to look at the papers in his hand for a few moments before he looks up. 

“Do you have a pen?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I know, it has been forever. And I am sorry but this chapter took forever to write and I had so much other stuff to do. Also, happy Death of a Bachelor day! Enjoy!

“Sherlock! What the bloody hell happened to your microwave?” John yells from the kitchen to his flatmate. 

“Experiment” comes the response.

John shakes his head and pulls out the glass tray from the microwave and turns it over in his hands. There is a hole straight through it and discolouration at the bottom of the box. 

Acid?

“Dammit, Sherlock. I needed to heat up this mug before work.” John grumbles.

Sherlock doesn’t answer.

“Were you planning on getting a new one anytime soon?” John asks, louder this time, trying to sound noticeably annoyed.

Still Sherlock doesn’t speak up. 

John stomps into the sitting room, glass tray in his hands and shoves it in front of Sherlock’s nose. Sherlock doesn’t even blink. 

“Microwave, Sherlock. What happened?” John demands.

Sherlock slowly brings his eyes up to the tray and then up to John’s face. “I’ve already told you. An experiment. With acid. Long before you moved in.” John shakes his head and takes the tray back to the kitchen and returns it to where it was before. 

John has been officially moved into the flat at 221B for a week now and while he knew that Sherlock was going to be an interesting, if not difficult person to room with, he never in a million years thought it would be this hard. Sherlock has next to no sense of privacy and is constantly bursting into John’s room when he is changing, or listening in on his phone conversation, and on one occasion, walking into the washroom when John was showering. John had yelled and banged against the plaster to show his displeasure just to earn a snarky comment about priorities as Sherlock walked out and slammed the door behind him. 

He is also constantly awake. There has been more than one occasion when John was woken up from clattering or stomping footsteps coming from the main room. When that happens he just puts a pillow over his head and tries to ignore him. 

But above everything else, he is just Sherlock. He hates to clean so when John gets back from work the first thing he does is tidy up around the place. If there is one thing he has learned from his week of living there, it is to never go digging around in the refrigerator. 

Sherlock thinks he is better than everyone.

He believes his intentions are always good, even if they might hurt others. 

He absolutely will not stand to have others question him. 

And above all, he is often gone. And even when he isn’t, his mind is away in some other place. 

So far, so good?

~

John Watson is still as intriguing to Sherlock a week after living with him as he was when they first met. He has some weird fascination with tidiness and Sherlock has often come home to papers stacked neatly in piles on the tables and bookcases. It is utterly insufferable; the papers were easier to search through when they were scattered about. He likes the space chilly, that way he can always wear one of his many jumpers. And he has a collection of coffee mugs that take up an entire cupboard. Sherlock doesn’t understand the significance of a bunch of coffee mugs but he doesn’t question it. It is one of John’s many idiosyncrasies that Sherlock is beginning to enjoy. 

Besides, his work has been busy lately and cases are springing up all the time, leaving Sherlock little time to ponder the life of his new flatmate, who seems almost as busy as himself. 

~

John can’t believe the pile of work that has been dumped on him lately at St. Barts. This job is still new enough that he hasn’t quite gotten into the swing of things and every new problem that arises pushes him further back. He has demoted to family physician and after the excitement of the war, tending to the ordinary problems of everyday people is dismal and boring. The one entertaining thing around here was one of the other doctors, Molly Hooper. It turns out that she was also the flitty barista that served him his coffee the day he met Sherlock Holmes. She does that on her free days, not because she needs the money but because the enjoys the people and the atmosphere. She knew Sherlock too. There were many times that she had mentioned the mysterious dark-haired man that would often come into the store and stay for a few hours at a time and always left without anything. The way she talked of him made John feel slightly uncomfortable, like he was listening in on a private conversation to only herself. Molly spoke of Sherlock with a kind of awe that would only be appropriate if one was talking about a lover. 

~

Molly’s fascination with Sherlock entertained John and he decided to broach the subject with Sherlock one afternoon during tea. He managed to catch Sherlock at a good moment, he had just finished a case and was giddy with satisfaction. 

“Sherlock,” John began, trying to sound very nonchalant about the entire conversation ahead of them, “you know the barista from the coffee shop, Molly?”

Sherlock looked at John with curiosity, his calculating eyes not giving anything away. “Yes, the one with stringy auburn hair? Works at St. Barts. With you.”

John nods vigorously. “Yes, that is the one. She talks about you often.”

The crystalline eyes squint at him slightly while he takes in this information. “Does she?”

“Yes. In fact she talks as if you two have a sort of... personal relationship. Care to elaborate?” John presses.

Sherlock sets his teacup down on the side table next to his chair. “No,” he says with a tone that is meant to stop any further questions. But John, being the person he is, wasn’t going to let him away that easily. 

“Come on, Sherlock. There is nothing going on between you two?” John asks with a smug grin. 

Sherlock suddenly stands up and presses close to John menacingly. “No, Dr. Watson. There is nothing between Ms. Hooper and myself. It is entirely her problem if she thinks there is and I would advise you not to bring this up again.” Sherlock stands up and walks out of the room, his black collared-coat swooshing after him as well as John’s curious eyes. 

~

Sherlock decided his little outburst was a bit uncalled for but he wasn’t one to apologize in the traditional sense so he left the flat. He was going to the bookstore.  
It was in the middle of the week, still technically during work hours, so the little shop was open and very slow. Sherlock silently thanked the universe for making it so quiet in there; he wasn’t in the mood to make small talk with the dull people that spent their time in there. The bell on the door tinkled as he pushed through the entryway and made his way to the bookstore portion of the place. This crummy little shop was the closest thing that Sherlock had to a regular sort of hang out. The people around him were vaguely familiar with him, although they never approached him and they expected him to come in and sift through book after book without ever buying anything. He had thought about it a few times but it would be next to pointless since he could remember almost everything he read. 

This time was different though. This time when Sherlock walked in and started towards the back to the books, he glanced around and took purpose to look at all the patrons in the coffee portion. He wanted to connect to them, understand why they came in here, understand them. Because of the time of the day, though, the only people in here were elderly couples and college students. That didn’t stop him from deducting. One student was sitting alone at a table, ear phones in and tapping his fingers against the table to whatever rhythm was coming out of his device. He kept glancing at his watch, brand new and shiny steel, obviously a present from a wealthy parent who was putting him through school. He definitely wasn’t paying for his own tuition the way he wasn’t really reading the text on his computer. He was from London and had an anxiety disorder. He was sporty but not good enough to get onto any teams at his school. He was in a relationship with a girl who had long, wavy, brown hair and she was the only reason he hadn’t dropped out yet. 

Next person.

An older woman sat in the corner staring off into space, her hands absently stroking the small tea cup in front of her. Widow. She was 72. No, 74. Her husband died in… June of last year and she was not grieving anymore. Her clothing was crisp and clean, obsessive compulsive, and there wasn’t a hair out of place on her grey-going-on-white head. She had children but they didn’t live close. No animals. No close friends. Her husband was abusive, resulting in her OCD. She wasn’t lonely though; her eyes were wistful but not sorrowful. 

Boring. Sherlock turned back to the books and began to look for new reading material. Of course there wasn’t anything interesting and he got bored very quickly but for some reason he didn’t want to leave. This place had a calming effect on him and he liked the serenity. 

~

Nothing about Sherlock makes sense, yet everything about him pisses John off. John hobbled around the room for a few moments before huffing loudly and stomping out the door.

“John, dear, where are heading? Would you like some tea before you leave?” Mrs. Hudson greeted him on the way out of the flat. 

“No, thank you Mrs. Hudson. I need some air, excuse me.” John yelled, not bothering to turn around before closing the door.

The coffee shop wasn’t too far from the flat and John was able to make the trip in about ten minutes. If Sherlock was to be anywhere in this godforsaken city, it would be there. 

~

The bell on the door chimed again when someone new came in. Sherlock whipped his head around, his curls bouncing with the movement, trying to see the new face who just entered. To Sherlock’s surprise, it was the very person he was trying to get away from: John Watson. Sherlock flipped the coat flaps up to hide his neck and part of his face and ducked behind a shelf. 

~

“Sherlock!” John whispered to the book section of the shop, “I saw you, stop being a child for God’s sake.” John walked over to the nook shelves and began looking down the rows, searching for his flatmate. When he got the the place where Sherlock had hid behind, he wasn’t there, but, to John’s astonishment, he wasn’t anywhere else either. 

Sherlock had snuck away and was now behind the counter of the coffee shop. He was sitting on the ground at Molly’s feet as she stared at him incredulously. 

“Don’t comment, miss Hooper. It’s none of your business.” Sherlock commands to the petite woman above him who can’t seem to close her mouth. 

“Sherlock, what are y-” She begins, but is silenced when a hand grabs the bottom of her apron and pulls her towards the ground as another hand comes up to cover her mouth. Sherlock holds her tight as her eyes pop out and look around nervously. 

“Shhh,” He silences her, “Don’t do anything. I’m trying to hid from that nosey bastard over there with the cane. Which he clearly doesn’t need.” He adds quietly, angling his head in the direction of John. 

Molly nods and Sherlock takes his hand off of her mouth. 

“Sherlock, you have to let me up. I have customers waiting for their order.” She whispers, leaning away from his slightly. 

John had to be wrong. She showed no interest in him whatsoever.

Sherlock lets go of her completely and she stands up slowly, smoothing down her skirt and running her fingers through her hair to catch all the flyaways. 

John watches as Molly stands up and looks around her. He doesn’t even need an indication to where Sherlock was hiding because not two seconds later a cell phone beeps from Molly’s legs. 

Idiot. 

Sherlock glares at his phone but looks at it anyway. There is a text from Detective inspector Lestrade; something about a case. 

-GL-: Sherlock, there’s a been another murder. Another asphyxiation case. Possibly related. Sending you the address in a min

-SH-: Fine. I will be there in 20. Expect a guest.

-GL-: A guest? With you?

Sherlock turns his phone off and silences the detective.

“Sherlock, stop being a child and get out from there.” John says impatiently from the other side of the counter.   
Sherlock springs up and grabs the front of John’s coat, pulling himself out from behind the counter and dragging the doctor behind him as they take off out the door. Molly waves from inside to the departing duo but they don’t see it and she lowers her hand slowly.

“Come along, John. There has been a murder.” Sherlock exclaims excitedly while John’s eyes widen with shock.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even have an excuse for not updating this time. Sorry everyone. Enjoy this chapter and comment what you think! I love getting feedback.

“A murder? What are you saying?” John asks as Sherlock pulls him along. 

“Detective inspector Lestrade is on a case dealing with a few asphyxiations and there has been another. You are coming along to help me.” Sherlock explains, not stopping even when John trips over his cane. In fact he speeds up.

“Sherlock! I can’t walk that quickly. Slow down--my leg.” John complains, trying to pull his sleeve out of the detectives grasp. 

Sherlock doesn’t slow. “You don’t need that cane, John. I’ve told you a thousand times. Come along, quickly.” 

“You’ve told me once and I very much do need it.” John yanks his arm out of Sherlock’s hand and stops in the middle of the pavement to adjust his jumper and steady himself. 

Sherlock whips around, his black curls reforming into their usual messy array when he stops. “Have it your way, John. The address is 402 Dorset street. Hurry.” Sherlock runs down the alley way and into the shadows, leaving Doctor Watson alone and frustrated. 

“That absolute prick!” John grumbles. He steadies his cane and hobbles on, walking quickly to get to Dorset street before Sherlock solves the case. 

~

Sherlock gets to the crime scene in a matter of minutes. He waved down a taxi and it was only a mile or so from where he already was. He arrives to three police cars parked outside with their lights on and yellow caution tape around a flat; of course he bypasses the tape. Sergeant Donovan waves him down, says something insulting, and throws her arms up in the air when her comment is ignored. Sherlock walks right in through the door, past a few officers and finds Lestrade hunched over a body. This one is a male probably thirty five years old with light brown hair. He is short and wearing a tweed jumper. In fact he bares a peculiar resemblance to John. 

There has been a scuffle here as well; a chair is askew in the corner of the room and a lamp is on its side, the bulb shattered and scattered. 

There is a cane in the corner leaning up against a wall. 

Just like John. 

~

John grumbles and walks slowly trying to wave down a taxi. He finally gets one and tells the driver the address and is dropped off in front of plain building. There is caution tape around and officers patrolling the premise. As he gets out of the cab he gets a few stares from the officers and one comes over to him.

“This is a crime scene, sir. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” An officer with dark brown hair brusquely says. His eyebrows are too bushy and his frown pulls them together, creating an ugly pouch of pink flesh above his nose.

“I’m with Sherlock Holmes.” John states, trying to push his way past the officer. 

“Sherlock?” This causes him to start laughing. Not just little chuckles either, he crunches over and hold his stomach as his laugh bellows around him, encompassing John and making him step back a meter or two. 

“No one works with Sherlock. He is a loner and a loser.” He continues to laugh and then beckons towards a mixed woman with curly dark brown hair and squinty eyes. “Donovan, get over here. This lad says he’s working with Sherlock.”

John is getting cross by this point and folds his arms over his chest, using his elbow to keep his cane from falling. 

“Sherlock? There is no way you are working with that lunatic!” The woman called Donovan exclaims. 

John huffs a loud sigh and groans. “Well I am. I’m his flat mate now let me through.” He says impatiently. 

At this, the officer and Donovan widen their eyes and Donovan’s mouth drops open in an ugly ‘O’.

John pushes past without giving them a chance to gawk at him anymore and hobbles over the the door of the building, through all of the caution tape. 

The building is poorly lit and glass litters the floor, glimmering in the weak rays of sunlight that peak in through the door. John walks past them and follows the hushed voices coming from the room to the right. Inside stands a few police officers and a couple of medics bickering about the man hunched over on the ground. Sherlock doesn’t pay attention to the men arguing about him and continues to crouch over the body in front of him. John makes his way over to Sherlock and leans down next to him, careful not to put his weight on his bum leg. 

The man in front of them is of shorter stature and has sandy blonde hair, not unlike John’s own. His eyes are open and glassy. There is a thin line around his throat from his strangulation that has turned a sickly shade of yellow. It is very obvious from the thin yet deep indenture on his throat that he was murdered with something along the lines of a cable cord. The indenture is just above his thyroid cartilage which would push the root of his tongue against his windpipe, cutting off all oxygen and killing him within minutes. 

~

While John is leaning over calculating the injury Sherlock stands up and walks around the room, inspecting every nook and cranny, trying to decipher the hidden meaning behind this homicide. It HAD to be directed towards him, why else would the victim resemble John so much? But then again, none of the other victims looked like people he had encountered before. The man could be a coincidence but Sherlock did not believe in coincidences; they were just made up justifications for those who were incapable of individual thought. Plus, there was something about the timing of these murders as well. From what Sherlock had gathered, the murders started just after John returned from Afghanistan and now here was a victim who looked like John, and there was a cane in the room. 

“It’s for you.” Sherlock suddenly blurts out to the silent room. He whips around until his gaze settles upon Dr. Watson. Crossing the room in two large strides, Sherlock grabs John by the front of his jacket and hauls him to his feet. 

“This case; It’s for you.” He clarifies, leaning down to look hard into John’s eyes. 

Just as quickly as he had come upon him, Sherlock lets go of John’s jacket and walks away, leaving John flustered and confused. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock questions the quiet room, “The blonde man, the jumper, the cane? It is all for you, John! I am not sure why at this moment but it’s for you. Through me they are reaching out to you. But how could they have known you would accompany to this particular crime scene? How did they know Lestrade would even inform me of this crime scene? This all seems a little too unplanned doesn’t it? But it is obviously not. We are obviously dealing with a very skilled person.”

John, who had been silently listening in awe to his flat mate decides to voice his input aloud. “But why would someone be concerned with me? There is nothing significant about me.” He reasons. 

“Ah, but you are forgetting one thing,” Sherlock states with a flourish of his hand. “You know me. Most people wouldn’t believe it unless they saw it, though. I don't like anyone but here I am offering up my home to a stranger. They must have taken notice of my fondness of you.” 

John’s cheeks patch up with pink at Sherlock’s comment and he tries to hide his embarrassment with a small cough. 

“Well, who has a grudge against you?” John asks his friend.

Sherlock give a small chuckle. “The better question, Dr. Watson, is who doesn’t. I makes a lot of enemies in this line of work and very few friends. There are a countless number of people that could be out to get me. Or you, in this case.”

John huffs and folds his arms. “Okay, so we have absolutely no leads.” He grumbles.

Sherlock leans against the wall nearest to him and arches his fingers underneath his nose into a steeple. “Not necessarily…” He says slowly. “We may be able to narrow it down. This person is obviously upset or unsettled by my treatment of you. Maybe they find us to be too close? Too affectionate? Maybe they dislike you because you are taking my time away from other things, other people…” He trails off. 

By this point, John’s face is bright red and there is no way of denying it by rubbing his nose or coughing. 

Detective inspector Lestrade walks into the room just then, wearing cloth footies over his shoes and latex gloves, so not to contaminate the crime scene. 

“What do you think of this one, Sherlock?” He asks in a gruff voice. 

Sherlock is quiet for a few moments before gesturing to John and then back at the detective. 

“This is my partner, Dr. John Watson. John, Detective Inspector George Lestrade.

Lestrade glares at Sherlock before extending his gloved hand for John to shake. “It’s actually Gregory.” He corrects. “Not that this prick would care to know the difference.” He adds with a nod in Sherlock’s direction. 

“George, Gregory, Geoff, what is the difference?” Sherlock mutters under his breath.

“Sherlock seems to think that is case is directed at me or him or the both of us.” John answers. “The victim here bares a striking resemblance to myself and Sherlock thinks that is not a coincidence.”

“There is no such thing as coincidence, Doctor Watson.” Sherlock pipes in coldly. 

“For you?” The detective interjects. “How would the criminal even know you were going to show up at this crime scene?”

“They must have known it was going to be too difficult for your inexperienced brain to handle and that you were going to have to call me.”

Lestrade scowls at Sherlock but says nothing.

“We will keep in touch, Detective, but for now I would like dinner so John and I are going to head out. See you around.” Sherlock turns on his heels, grabs John’s hand, and walks them both out the door before Lestrade can stop them and ask more unnecessary questions.

“You really should be nicer to people, Sherlock.” John reasons, scrambling over his cane to keep up with Sherlock’s long strides. “They may not invited you back next time.”

Sherlock lets out a loud laugh before answering. “I would come anyway, John. And besides, they will always invite me. They need me.”


End file.
